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There’s another world out there somewhere!
These people are very strange. They talk nonstop all day long.
Chatter ... chatter ... chatter!
That’s what they do to each other. Each looks into the other’s eyes; Ugh! (I just can’t do that.) And their lips open and stretch; sometimes wide like pulling an elastic band, showing pink gum and crooked teeth, and sometimes screwing into a circle when they make an ‘oooooh’ sound.
Sometimes they do the chattering so fast that spit falls out and lands on their chin. I don’t get it!
They call it conversation. Oh yes, I know what it’s called. I understand lots of things, but it’s why they waste their time doing it that puzzles me.
When I need something I point or take mom’s hand and pull her to what I want. She always knows. I don’t have to flap my lips and spit like those people from the other world.
Mom’s a bit weird too. Sometimes when I’m spinning she grabs me tight so I can’t wiggle free. She makes me very cross when she does that. Then she’ll splash me all over with tears and ask me where I’ve gone to.
Well here I am! Where else could I possibly be when she’s got me in a huge bear hug!
“You’re in your own little world,” she’ll blubber.
Well, I like it here and I’m staying. Yours is too complicated for me. It’s noisy and makes my ears hurt. You let the light in and it dazzles me. Why would I want to be there in your world?
But I don’t say anything at all in the end because she should know what I’m thinking. Why doesn’t she get something so simple?
Is my mom a retard?
That’s what I need to understand because when I go to the shops with her she grabs my hand really tight. So tight that I fight and scratch to loosen her grip and escape. There must be something really scary in there!
But when dad takes me he holds me even tighter and I just have to go in. But when I get inside I find that there’s nothing really scary after all. Just more of those horrid lips slopping around and eyeballs popping out on stalks.
That’s when the chattering says that word,
‘Retard!’
I stick my fingers in my ears when it does it. I don’t know what it is but it sounds very ugly to me and always makes mom cry.
If my mom’s a retard I need to know!
A woman comes to see us sometimes. I don’t like her much. She smells of green and yellow so I screw shut my eyes and pinch my nose. She asks mom how she’s coping with me. That must be because mom’s a retard. Perhaps she needs someone to show her what to do.
Mom’s going on again about my little world. The woman looks at the pictures I’ve done and her fat lips makes a giant O.
“My goodness!” she says, sucking in the air. “This child is very gifted!” Mom’s tears spill out again. What a strange thing to do!
“I know,” she says. “And you should see his caricatures.”
I hate this woman’s laugh. It hurts my ears so much. I start to sketch her jelly wobble bottom as it sneaks over the edges of our armchair. I use a large sheet of paper and choose my scarlet crayon to match the paint she smeared on her squashy lips.
Mom knows what’s coming so she quickly snatches the paper from me. Slop Lips must guess that mom’s a retard and tells her to let me carry on.
When she sees her portrait the woman looks stunned.
“It’s incredible!” she gasps. “Such detail. He’s an outstandingly talented young man!”
“He never fails to amaze me,” says mom. “He doesn’t take after us. It must be a gift from God!”
So is that where my world is ... where God lives? Is that why mom throws up her hands and asks Him to help her understand me every day?
“Do lots of special needs children have unusual talents?” mom asks.
“Once in a blue moon!” came the reply. “It’s not as common as Joe Public is led to believe.”
I’m glad mom asked the question. Perhaps she’s not a retard after all.
That explains it then; my world I mean. I’m from Blue Moon!
No wonder I can’t make sense of these Earthlings!
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